Tag: Birthdays

So, Rosie had her second birthday on January 18th. I don’t actually know if it is her “real” birthday, but it was one year after the day the shelter picked her up off the L.A. streets and estimated her age to be one. As a dog parent, it’s always hard to figure out which occasion to celebrate: the actual birthday? The foster anniversary? The adoption anniversary? Or what? For the sake of not driving myself crazy, I picked her “birthday”.

Rosie on her birthday with her “cake”.

We all know that a pet’s age in people years is their chronological age multiplied times seven. So with that logic, Rosie is 14. A tween. She’s not a baby anymore. She uses emoji, watches Jane the Virgin, and listens to Drake (because the Biebs is so “last year”).

So please riddle me this: why do people talk to her like she’s a baby? She’s so beyond the cootchie cootchie coo language (as in, “Rosie, fetch!”) and now understands adult commands like “Rosie, would you kindly bring me my crack pipe?”

Rosie’s Chelsea digs.

There’s a doorman in my building who talks to Rosie in this Muppet-like voice when I take her out at 5:00am — he says things like, “Heyyyy Rosie, girl, did you sleep with mommy last night? Are you going for your walky? (He really just puts a Y at the end of everything.) After your walky will you have some brekky? (No, he’s not Australian.) Will you make poopy for mommy like a good girl?”

I never know how to respond to him — but he looks at me like I’m supposed to throw my voice like a ventriloquist and talk back to him through Rosie. “Yes, sir, I am going to eat my brekky and make poopy for mommy like a good little girl.” Hell if I’m doing that.

I don’t usually respond at all; I’m usually too groggy (remember: 5:00am). Then I feel kind of guilty — the guy is totally nice and means well. He’s just irritating as all fuck.

He also does this other thing — where he calls Rosie “bicoastal” (ok, kind of cute/clever) and imagines that she’s a little surfer girl who hates the East coast and the weather here. Points for imagination…. but still… 5:00am.

“Hey, little surfer girl, you’re not gonna like the weather outside, surfer girl — it’s rainy wainy — bet you’d rather be at the beach with the sand between your toes catching some rays.” Oh-kayyyyy…..

I know I’m probably just super irritable (you think?), but I may start getting up at 7:00am when this dude’s shift is over. What do you think?